


Our Great Glory

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Mercenaries, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2020-10-28 18:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20783132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After being ruled by the dragonlords for three hundred years unbroken, Westeros seems peaceful. The last great war is now seventeen years past, and the commoners are enjoying a particularly long summer. The nobles of the realm, however, harbor old grudges and a growing desire for vengeance. Amidst the brewing trouble, the fates of two sellswords cross: Ser Jeremy, a lowborn knight looking for gold and glory across the sea, and Ryan the Mad, a warrior in the employ of the Golden Company. They leave a trail of bloodshed behind them, and when the tension snaps and war finally breaks out, they are forced to discover how much they are willing to sacrifice - for each other, for the realm, for honor and peace, for the king and the people, and finally, for life itself.“Glory and gold are the only things worth riding into battle for,” he told Ryan confidently, as if it were not a brazen lie.“And what of beauty?” Ryan asked, tone still playful and inquisitive, but now with a certain determination to it. His hair shone golden in the bright morning sunshine, his eyes were as blue as a cloudless summer sky, and his voice was sweeter than a honeycomb plucked right out of a beehive.





	1. TABLE OF CONTENTS & DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

**Author's Note:**

> A project I've been working on for a while. Chapters will update around once a month. I am an avid fan of both AH and ASoIaF and the plot bunny "Battle Buddies in Westeros" just would not leave me alone, so here it is. Expect a focus on Ryan and Jeremy and their relationship, various ways people can be hired to kill other people, a roadtrip through Essos and Westeros, a war of succession, forbidden loves, bastards and broken things, musings on the value of a human life, a criticism of feudalism through the eyes of commoners, and more! 
> 
> The only explicit pairing will be Jeremwood, although others will be implied. 
> 
> The only characters I included are the AH cast: Geoff, Jack, Ryan, Michael, Gavin, Lindsay, Jeremy, Matt, Trevor, Alfredo, and Fiona. Ray gets a cameo. **Everyone else is an OC.**

> We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.  
_—George R. R. Martin, A Game of Thrones_

**Westeros and Essos, an alternate year 300 AC**

The King on the Iron Throne is Aenys II Targaryen, who rules by the side of his sister-wife Jaehaera. Only one of their several children is still alive: Princess Shaena, a sweet and somewhat naive girl of twelve years, heir apparent to the Seven Kingdoms. Her betrothal is hotly debated within the kingdoms, as her husband will most likely rule the realm once her father dies. In the Vale, Lord Marq Arryn, once a famous knight, grows lazier every year. He has several sons and seeks to marry one of them to Princess Shaena, and his talks with Aenys are amiable indeed. Lord Jasper Tully from the Riverlands, on the other hand, bears a grudge against Aenys after the King banished his son and heir Jack Tully seventeen years ago. In the Westerlands, the Reynes under Lord Roland have reigned for one generation now after deposing and executing the weak head of House Lannister, Loreon Lannister, and are fiercely loyal to King Aenys who allowed them to do so. The Iron Throne's most powerful vassal, however, is Lord Tomard Tyrell of the Reach. He is an ambitious man who wishes for one of his many daughters to sit the Iron Throne. The Stormlands are overseen by young Lord Davos Baratheon, hungry for glory and fiercely in love with his beautiful bride, a daughter of Marq Arryn. Finally, Dorne is ruled by the young Princess Fiona, who struggles with her unruly bannerman Lord Dickon Yronwood. In the North, Lord Theon Stark sits and collects food for the impending winter, attempting to keep himself and his people out of the Southron schemes. The Iron Islands under Lord Qarl Greyjoy raid along the Essosi coastline and likewise try to stay out of mainland politics. Meanwhile, in Essos, the Free Cities are once again embroiled in petty warring against each other. The Golden Company is currently hired by a coalition of Lys and Myr to besiege Volantis.

* * *

**TABLE OF CONTENTS**   
_PROLOGUE: The Kingsguard_

_PART 1: Lives Have Meaning_ | _PART 2: The Snows Fall _ | _PART 3: All Men Must Die_  
---|---|---  
Jeremy I  
Jack I  
Jeremy II  
Jack II  
Jeremy III  
Michael I  
  
* * *

**DRAMATIS PERSONÆ**

**ON THE IRON THRONE**  
King Aenys II Targaryen, a strict, bitter, and unpopular man  
—his sister-wife Queen Jaehaera, a passionate falconer in her youth, now a recluse  
—his son and former heir, Prince Aemon, slain at the Massacre of Massey's Hook in 283  
—his daughter, Princess Shaena, a maiden of twelve years, heir apparent to the Seven Kingdoms  
—his Small Council:  
—Davos Baratheon, Hand of the King  
—Geoff Lonmouth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard  
—Myles Arryn, master of coin  
—Olyvar Rosby, master of laws  
—Patrek Kenning, master of ships  
—Ray Santagar, master of whisperers

**LORDS PARAMOUNT AND THEIR FAMILIES**

Lord Roland Reyne, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, a widely disdained, greedy man  
—his wife Alyssa, aunt to Lord Davos Baratheon  
—his son Ser Waymar Reyne, a knight  
—his daughter Lindsay Reyne, a wild maiden of twenty-and-three, refusing to marry

Lord Davos Baratheon, Hand of the King, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, young and hungry for glory  
—his wife Jennelyn, daughter of Marq Arryn

Lord Marq Arryn, Lord Paramount of the Vale, ambitious and on good terms with the King  
—his six sons, chief among them Ser Myles, his heir, and Brynden, a squire, of an age with Shaena  
—his daughter Jennelyn, wife to Davos Baratheon

Lord Tomard Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach, an amiable but ambitious man  
—his wife Jeyne Redwyne  
—his son and heir Ser Symon Tyrell  
—his five daughters, chief among them the shrewd Lady Laena Tyrell

Lord Jasper Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, an old, grieving man  
—Ser Jack Tully, known as Red Jack, his son and former heir, banished by King Aenys and captain-general of the Golden Company  
—Alyn Tully, his brother and current heir, a father of two and a scholar

Princess Fiona Nymeros Martell, Lady Paramount of Dorne  
—her nephew and heir, Arion Martell, a child of six years  
—her bastard half-brother Alfredo Sand, a Black Brother at the Wall

Lord Theon Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, a strong and strict man  
—his wife and children, chief among them his youngest son, a greenseer

Lord Qarl Greyjoy, Lord Paramount of the Iron Islands, an adventurer  
—his three sons Qyle, Qalle, and Qorgen, captains of their own ships

**WESTEROSI**  
Ser Geoff Lonmouth, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard

Lord Matt Longthorpe, the Lord of a minor house on the Sisters, sworn to Marq Arryn  
—Ser Jeremy of Longsister, a disgraced knight once in service to Matt, and his childhood friend

Gerion Hill, Last of the Lions, the bastard son of Lord Loreon Lannister, a charismatic man who seeks to regain his ancestral seat

Ryan the Mad, a commoner from Oldtown, sellsword, currently in the employ of the Golden Company

Lady Myriah Santagar, paramour and handmaiden of Fiona Martell  
—Myriah's younger brother Ray Santagar, the king's master of whisperers

Michael, a commoner from Bear Island, warrior and sellsword, currently in service to Gavino

Trevor, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, a commoner from Great Wyk, son of a thrall

Lord Dickon Yronwood, Fiona Martell's principal bannerman and her fiercest rival

**IN ESSOS**  
Baelor I Blackfyre 'the Blackwyrm', a pretender to the Iron Throne, last of the Blackfyres  
—his parents, Daemon III Blackfyre, dead by Aenys' sword, and his wife, a Volantene noblewoman named Rhaenelle  
—his older brother Daemon and his younger brothers Maegor and Rhaenor, all of them dead before their time

Gavino 'Gavin' the Golden Blade, a rich Braavosi, traveller, and half-decent bravo

Khonos of Myr, a nobleman from Myr

Jack Tully, captain-general of the Golden Company  
—his close friend and right hand, Ryan the Mad  
—Idumm, an escaped slave from Yunkai, his assistant


	2. PROLOGUE: THE KINGSGUARD

**283 AC, at the Massacre of Massey’s Hook  
**

The battle was thick and had been going on for hours. His sword was crimson all over as Geoff cut his way through the men fighting around him. He feared that he would be too late again. Prince Aemon had died not ten feet from him, and had been dead by the time Geoff had made it to his side. As a knight of the Kingsguard, it was his duty to protect the king now that the crown prince was dead, and he would not allow the king to join his son’s fate. He could see King Aenys’ golden crown in the crowd, armed men of both sides around him. The Blackfyre host had landed in Westeros a moon back, and this would be the decisive battle, the armies of Aenys II Targaryen and Daemon III Blackfyre clashing on the coastline. A half-day ago, Geoff had listened to the tidal waves crashing ashore; now there were only the violent sounds of swords clashing and men dying. He almost stumbled over one of them but pushed on until he reached his king. Aenys Targaryen stood panting above a corpse, the Targaryens’ ancestral sword Dark Sister clasped tightly in his hand. Geoff looked down at the dead man and recognized the helmet, shaped like a snarling dragon in red bronze. It was Daemon III Blackfyre, and Aenys had killed him. “My King,” Geoff yelled at him, and Aenys turned his head towards him. His violet eyes gazed at him sharp and questioning. Geoff swallowed. Now that the pretender Daemon was dead, his rebellious war was dead as well. The prince’s death, only minutes before Daemon’s, had been for nothing. “Your son. He died. It was–” Geoff swallowed again. His throat tasted like copper. “–Red Jack.”

The expression on the king’s face shifted to shocked horror. Aenys had born love for his son as much as any man ever had. And that Ser Jack Tully, a highborn noble, knighted by the king himself and close friend to Geoff, had done the deed - Geoff understood the horror on Aenys’ face because he, too, lived through it. The battle raged on around them, yet Aenys merely stared at Geoff. Anything else Geoff might have said died unspoken on his tongue as he caught a movement from the corner of his eyes. There came Baelor Blackfyre, eldest surviving son of Daemon, his sword raised. “Step back,” Geoff yelled at the king as he stepped between the black dragon and the red and raised his sword, not one second too early. Baelor’s longsword clashed against his with a terrible sound. Baelor screamed at Geoff, wordless, his gaze warped into a horrible grimace of agony. He must have spotted his father dead by the king’s feet. Geoff slashed at him and he stumbled back. Geoff’s white cloak, now stained brown and red from the battle, whirled around him as he turned to parry Baelor’s next attack. The pretender’s armor gleamed in the weak sunlight. It was colored bright red like his father’s, but by now it was only a dark red, as the man was covered head to toe in blood. Baelor roared at Geoff, pain and fury mingling in his voice, and slashed at him. Behind Baelor, he saw Rhaenor appear, the man’s younger brother, third of Daemon Blackfyre’s sons. With a bark, Baelor ordered the boy to help him with Geoff, but Rhaenor ran further to their father’s corpse. Baelor went to follow him, but Geoff stepped between them. The boy was barely sixteen and not a gifted swordsman – Baelor was the only danger for his king.

The two fighters circled each other while the battle raged around them. One day, songs would be sung of this day, Geoff knew, songs of grief for Prince Aemon but songs of victory for their cause. “Your king will die!” Baelor snarled at him, and Geoff’s expression hardened. Their swords clashed and parted again. Baelor’s voice remained strong as he continued yelling. “And you traitors will be hanged, all of you! You and your band of fools!” Geoff slashed at his stomach and barely missed; Baelor took a step back. “Aenys and the fucking Reynes, Prince Aemon, Red Jack, and that ugly Baratheon whelp!” Geoff glanced over his shoulder while Baelor spoke. Rhaenor was kneeling by his father’s lifeless body, while King Aenys looked down at him with cold eyes and his mouth moving. His words were swallowed by the battle noises around them. 

“You’re too late,” Geoff snarled in reply as he turned back to Baelor. He raised his sword and began a furious onslaught that Baelor could only dodge, not giving him the opportunity to attack. “Prince Aemon was slain not ten minutes ago. You will not get your vengeance, Blackfyre!” Geoff yelled, his voice filled with grief instead of anger. Baelor evaded his next swipe to the left, but Geoff ran at him and pushed him to the ground. He stuck out his sword and held it to the man’s throat. “Yield and you will get what Aemon did not – a chance to live. Choose wisely, Baelor.”

Baelor threw a panicked look behind Geoff, and Geoff followed it. Rhaenor was back back on his feet. The boy held his father’s Valyrian steel greatsword, Blackfyre, in shaking hands and ran at the king. Baelor let out a whimper, and when he spoke, his voice was choked by fear. “I yield,” he murmured while his fingers grasped the hilt of his own sword to throw it at Geoff’s feet. “Ser Geoff, I plead with you, keep my brother alive. He is only fifteen, not even knighted yet. Do not let your king become a killer of children.” Satisfied, Geoff raised his sword and turned around, towards where Aenys was now fighting Rhaenor. He would get between them and knock Blackfyre out of the squire’s hands and force him to yield too, and then the Blackfyre cause would be finished for good. Behind him, Baelor attempted to get back up, but his hand slipped through the mud and he fell and cried out. Geoff’s attention was drawn to him, and when he looked back at his king, Aenys was drawing his sword out of Rhaenor’s shoulder; Rhaenor was falling to the ground, blood seeping out of him and his body limp. Baelor Blackfyre behind him sobbed, stood, and then a sickening crunch filled Geoff’s consciousness as the hilt of a sword came crashing down on his head. Darkness filled his view, and the last thing he saw was the dead boy in front of him. 


	3. JEREMY I

> Men's lives have meaning, not their deaths.  
_\- George R.R. Martin, A Dance with Dragons_

**300 AC, on a road to Volantis**

A corpse lay by the side of the road, bloated and covered in fat, green flies, filling the hot summer air around it with the sickening sweet stink of decay. Jeremy stopped his mule to look at it. It was a man, bald on top of his head and with lonely patches of brown hair sprouting behind his ears, face-down on the ground. He was not long dead, Jeremy thought, as there was still a lack of crows feasting on his flesh. His skin was covered in brown leather armor, the way the Essosi preferred it over the heavy steel armor that Jeremy was used to from Westeros. His legs were stretched out behind him and his arms were clasped to his side, almost as if he was sleeping. Clicking his tongue, Jeremy had his mule approach the corpse carefully before he descended a few feet away from it. The dead body did not appear to have been rich in life, but one never knew, and Jeremy felled the decision in an instant: he would loot the poor bastard. Just one year ago, he would have loathed himself for what he was about to do, but these days, he increasingly found food harder to come by than honor, and therefore considered it a more cherished commodity. He knelt down and turned the man onto his back. Empty gray eyes stared unseeingly at the sky. It was an older man, he estimated, forty or fifty years, but not yet old enough to simply keel over and die. He wondered what he had died of. An attack by outlaws? But Jeremy’s mule seemed unconcerned, and if they had killed the corpse, surely they would have stolen all, including the clothes from his back. His eyes roamed over the body looking for either wounds or valuables. At first, he found neither. The man bore a sword as old as him, and blunt on top of its age. His armor was sturdy, but Jeremy had his own armor, good castle-forged steel plate with padding of boiled leather beneath. He found some silver coins in a small pouch and pocketed them, but they were not worth more than his next meal. Around his neck, the man was wearing a pendant on a thin iron chain, and with some disgust for himself, Jeremy unclasped it. The pendant was made of a silvery gold, wrought in the shape of some bird, its wings spread wide and two small pearls as its eyes. On its back, a symbol was engraved. Jeremy thought it might be a letter, but he had never been taught his letters apart from J to give his signature, and either way, many Essosi still used Valyrian letters, so different from the Westerosi ones. He turned the jewelry around again and stared at its pearly eyes. It was very finely made, certainly by a goldsmith, and he had rarely seen any piece of jewelry as beautiful, not at his former employer Matt Longthorpe’s court and at no other court either. Matt was a poor lord, this was true, unable to pay Jeremy after a few years, but Jeremy had traveled the seven kingdoms extensively, and he had experienced riches beyond compare, yet rarely anything as gorgeous as this bird. Jeremy had seen enough of life’s horrors that he had learned to cherish beauty whenever it crossed his path, and to never let it go once he had grasped it. Therefore, he quickly stuffed the necklace into his purse where it tingled as it met his few coins.

The dead man had his eyes wide open still. It seemed to Jeremy as if he was looking at him with a silent accusation in his gaze. _Not only did I die, which is bad enough, but now some poor disgraced knight is robbing my corpse,_ he seemed to say. Jeremy frowned and laid a hand on the corpse’s eyes to close them. The flies were buzzing around his fingers, annoyed by this stranger interrupting their feast. He mounted the mule again and rode off as fast as he could. That the corpse knew he had become nothing but a lowly looter was bad enough; he didn’t need a chance passerby to witness it as well. When he was further down the road, he chanced a glance over his shoulder at the corpse. A crow had landed on his head. It stared at Jeremy before it pecked at the dead man’s eyes. 

This was not the first corpse Jeremy had ever seen, neither the second, nor even the twentieth. He was a knight and a warrior, he had fought for his liege in wars, he had fought for gold in tourneys and in melees. Men died on the battlefield, during tourneys, and during melees. Men also died by the side of dusty old roads, more often than they should. There was no reason for him to dwell on this one particular corpse. Yet Jeremy kept wondering about the nameless man’s story. Where was he from? Had he been on his way to the same destination Jeremy was headed towards, when death had claimed him? Why did he own such a valuable necklace yet such threadbare equipment? Was he a disgraced noble who clung to the last remainder of his splendid youth? Or perhaps he was common-born like Jeremy and had crawled his way out of the gutter by his own skill and diligence, had become a famous fighter, and the necklace was a beautiful highborn lady’s favor of one tourney or the other? All these questions about the corpse lead to one single question about himself – would Jeremy end like this man, in five, ten, twenty years, just a nameless corpse by the side of a road, far from home, far from his rapidly fading glory, far from those he loved, with a necklace above his station, to be looted by the next unlucky fool to continue the circle forever and ever? Seven Hells, those were gloomy thoughts, but unlike the corpse, he could not leave them behind riding onwards: They clung to his back. 

Lost in his sullen thoughts, Jeremy almost didn’t notice the men riding towards him from the opposite direction. The sun was high in the sky, burning hotly down on him, and he was wiping sweat from his brow when he saw them. There were seven men, all of them on horses; six were riding some way behind the seventh, who came racing towards Jeremy, dust whirling up behind him. He rode a beautiful horse, not an old stubborn mule like Jeremy but a tall black destrier, so majestic that only lordlings would be able to afford it back home. Close as Jeremy was to the Dothraki Sea, fine horses were easier to come by than in Westeros, but this did not take away from his admiration for the stallion. The man who rode him, though, looked even finer. He sat the horse tall, and ramrod straight, as if he and the horse were one, and moved gracefully with every of the beast’s frenzied steps. A long sword scabbard hung off his left hip. He wore black leather armor, reinforced by chainmail clinking with every step of the horse, high leather boots dyed a dark blue, and a coat of the same color long enough to cover the horse’s back behind him. The coat was clasped to his left shoulder with a copper brooch, glinting orange-red in the bright sunlight. His hair shone in the sunlight too, a light brown that shimmered like gold. A stubbly beard of the same colour covered a handsome face whose loveliness was not diminished by a scar going through his right eyebrow. Beneath his armor, it was clear that sinewy muscles were working to keep him in the saddle, and his expression, once he got close enough for Jeremy to make out details, was fiercely determined as it was vicious. Jeremy was dumb-struck for a moment. The man was so strikingly handsome that his appearance literally knocked the breath out of him. The men following the fair stranger were striking too, but not for their appearance – rather, for the pure, murderous fury emanating from them. They carried spears and shortswords, one a mace and one an arakh, and Jeremy recognized them as bandits immediately. He should step aside, he thought, this was not his problem, and the bandits would be more interested in continuing to follow this rich-looking man rather than stopping to rob him, and–

“You!” the man on the splendid horse called out to him once he came close. He had very blue eyes, Jeremy noted. He had also just spoken to him in the Common Tongue, not one of the countless Valyrian dialects they were prone to using here. Instinctively, Jeremy reached for the heavy battle-axe strapped to his back. “Help me and I’ll reward you!” Jeremy did not need to be told this twice. He nodded vigorously at the man, who slowed his pace and led his destrier in a half-circle around Jeremy to face his pursuers. Jeremy tied his mule’s leash around his wrist and took the axe into both hands. The pursuers saw that something was happening, but they were riding too fast to correct their course, and the one in front rode straight into a powerful blow from Jeremy’s axe. He fell off his horse in a high arc while his horse ran off behind a rock. The rest of the pursuers slowed, obviously confused by this turn of events. “Come closer, cowards!” Jeremy yelled at them, the grip on his axe tight as his blood began to grow hot with the expectation of battle to come.

“They won’t understand you,” the stranger called out to him, and then said something in what Jeremy recognized as one of the Valyrian dialects. He sounded distinctly Westerosi, though, his words heavily accented. Despite this, his words showed effect, and the pursuers came closer to them, circling them. The stranger drew his sword. Like his destrier, it was a splendid thing, long and broad, its steel a dark gray, albeit its hilt looked common, especially compared to the man’s finely gloved hands. With a battlecry, the bandits advanced on them, and Jeremy drew a deep breath before the song of battle thrummed in his veins. He lunged at them from atop his mule, while dodging their attacks at the same time. They were clumsy, though, obviously inexperienced, and the fight was over quick, too quick for his taste. The stranger was a warrior, far more experienced than probably all the bandits together, his sword always finding its mark, and Jeremy found that it was easy to fight by his side, more like a dance than a fight. The clash of steel had often sounded like a song to his ears, and the stranger seemed to cherish this song too. The stranger killed one of the bandits and Jeremy injured one other before the remaining four realized they had no chance, turned heel, and rode off towards the horizon. Jeremy gave his mule the spurs to follow them, but the stranger maneuvered his horse in front of him. Jeremy had to look up at him, which annoyed him faintly. “Let them go,” the man told him. “It is not worth the effort.” His eyes glinted as he looked Jeremy over, but then he turned and galloped off, albeit in a different direction than the fleeing bandits. 

Jeremy stood in the middle of the road, dumb-founded again. His blood was still hot from the battle, short as it had been, and from the awe-inspiring sight of this stranger, that it felt difficult to calm his heartbeat enough to stop and think about what had just happened. He was given no chance for reflection, though, because a minute later the stranger returned from behind a grouping of rocks. His sword was back in its scabbard and in his left hand, he held the reins of a horse; the horse Jeremy recognized as the one whose rider he had slain. The horse was spooked but followed the stranger’s secure lead, until they stood next to Jeremy. Jeremy just stared at him, at these eyes as blue as the sky above them. The stranger looked down on him with something like an amused expression on his face. 

“My thanks for your help, ser,” he said, and Jeremy took the opportunity to enjoy the sound of his voice, which sounded much like the way fresh spring honey tasted for a starving man. By the Seven, he had been gone from home for too long that he had such a strong reaction to a stranger merely speaking his tongue! Jeremy blinked and, unimpressed with himself, forced himself back into the moment.

“I am – wait, how do you know I am a knight?” he asked, confused. 

The stranger grinned. “You’re wearing armor from Westeros. Rather nice one, I must say. Your mount is not a knight’s, but your posture is, even on a mule. A tourney knight, I would say, if not for your skill in battle. A true warrior, then, and brave without a doubt, to jump into battle against six without hesitation. A knight like the ones they sing songs of, truly!”

Jeremy did not know what to feel. The stranger might be making fun of him, or perhaps he was actually impressed – it was hard to say. His expression was unreadable, his smile friendly and his eyes glistening. “Oh,” he replied and immediately chastized himself for how foolish he sounded. He wished to impress this man, and he would not do so if he kept tripping over his words like a motleyed fool. “Very astute of you.” He sat up a bit straighter in his saddle. “I am Ser Jeremy of Longsister, knighted by Lord Marq Arryn himself. I earned my spurs at the Battle of the Ghosts when I was only sixteen years old. I rode in tourneys and fought in countless melees and made first place in the tourney for Symon Tyrell’s wedding. Who am I having the pleasure of having saved, ser?” The last sentence was spoken with broad grin, showing off his teeth, and Jeremy hoped it made him seem like a dragon and not like a little cat. 

The stranger reciprocated his grin with a slight smile. “I am not a knight, Ser Jeremy, but I am honored you think so. I do not know whether tales of my exploits have reached Westeros, but in Essos, they call me Ryan the Mad.”

“Not mad enough for Westeros, I am afraid,” Jeremy replied easily. He had not heard anything of a Ryan, mad or not. “I have not heard those tales. Although judging from your battle prowess just now, this is not justified.”

Ryan gave him a pleased grin. “Likewise, ser. Without your aid, no doubt they would have overwhelmed me. Let me give you my thanks as freely as you gave me my life.” With this, he grabbed one of Jeremy’s hand, and for a third time, Jeremy was dumb-founded. Ryan’s hand was gloved, the leather too warm from the sun, but it felt just right for him to take his hand, somehow. For a split-second, he imagined Ryan would take his hand as if he was a highborn maiden and kiss it, a very silly thought, and then Ryan pressed the reins of the bandit’s horse into his hand firmly before he leaned back into his saddle. Jeremy blinked at him. Then, Ryan leaned forward to face the mule. “No disrespect to you, proud mount who played such an important role in saving my life,” he told the animal, “but I think you will agree that a great knight like Ser Jeremy deserves a horse he can ride to war on, and you deserve a stack of hay and some peace and quiet.” He was so sincere with the animal that Jeremy could not hold back laughter – the contrast was so stark, between the mysterious stranger who wielded his sword as deadly as a legendary knight, and this man who talked to a mule with such earnestness. Ryan joined in his laughter, which was a very pretty sound, he had to admit. 

Afterwards, Jeremy descended his mule and mounted the horse instead. It was a brown mare, a bit thin, with a decent leather saddle and empty saddle-bags. Ryan clicked his horse back into a slow trot, in the direction he had come from, and Jeremy followed him, leading his mule behind them. “What brings you out here, Ser Jeremy?” Ryan asked, not unfriendly. “We are a long way from Longsister and your Lord Arryn.”

“He is not my lord,” Jeremy disagreed immediately. “My liege was Matt Longthorpe, and _he_ is sworn to Lord Arryn. I am here because Westeros has been too peaceful for too long. Essos is where glory can be found, especially for a hedgeknight like myself.” This was not the entire truth, but the lie sat easy with Jeremy, and it seemed to convince Ryan, who nodded along. “I know of the tales surrounding the Golden Company. A sellsword company founded by the first Blackfyre and his supporters, and the most prestigious sellsword company in all of Essos. I wish to offer my sword to them and gain gold and glory before I return home.”

“You are in luck, Ser!” Ryan exclaimed. “You are talking with none other than the captain-general’s right hand! And let me tell you, rarely can one of our new recruits boast to have saved my life, so I am pretty positive you will be accepted with open arms!”

Jeremy gaped at him. “You speak the truth?” he asked, incredulous. This explained not only why the man fought so well, but also why he cut such a splendid figure. Of course the captain-general’s right hand would be paid well enough to afford such a nice horse and such a nice sword. “I thought about stepping aside and let them rob you, you know. For a moment. Now I’m doubly glad I did not. Money _and_ a good recommendation for the captain-general, my lucky day!” His big mouth would get him into an early grave, he knew when he realized what he had just said – basically, that he had thought about letting Ryan die for his own comfort, albeit clothed in a joke. 

Ryan, thankfully, only laughed at his words. “Yes, you will make a splendid sellsword, Ser Jeremy, if money is what convinced you to fight by my side.” Jeremy was not sure he liked the insinuation of this. After all, that was not the reason he had grabbed his battle-axe – not the only reason, at least. Money was very nice, and he had deserted notions of chivalry and protecting the innocent moons ago, but if he was truly honest with himself, what had tipped the scales was how much in awe Jeremy had been at the sight of Ryan. It was the same as with the bird pendant: Jeremy had seen enough of life’s horrors, enough to grasp beauty and keep it close to himself greedigly. Instead of mentioning this, however, he only smiled at Ryan, inclining his head in agreement. Then, he took up easy chit-chat, asking Ryan questions about the Golden Company.

As they rode down the road towards the Golden Company’s encampment, a crow watched them from the top of a thin, gnarly tree, its beak blood red. 


	4. JACK I

**300 AC, encampment of the Golden Company**

The city walls of Volantis were blurred, as all objects in the distance tended to be. If Jack came closer, they always shifted back into focus. Sometimes, Jack thought he remembered a childhood when far-away things were not blurred; but he was unsure whether this had truly happened at all. He did not like dwelling on his childhood in any case – all it served was to make him sad now that he had lost it all, his title, his family, his companions, the feeling of Riverrun’s cool water splashed on his face during a particularly hot summer. All of it he had once known as well as the heart beating in his chest, but by now, the memories had grown gray and hazy like the city walls far in front of him. “Myr has sent a messenger. They demand that we attack soon,” said the man next to him, a scarred warrior named Idumm. In contrast to most of Jack’s men, he was Essosi born and bred, an eunuch from the fighting pits of Slaver’s Bay who had managed to break free of his chain. Jack had made the best of his exile, trying to understand the different foreign customs and practices in these queer places, but the existence of slavery still seemed incredibly barbaric to him, and he was always happy to take escaped slaves into his service. If he paid them a few more copper coins under the hand, well, nobody had to know; and in any case, if his free-born soldiers knew, he hoped that they would not be too annoyed. They were Westerosi like him, after all, at least a majority, and like him, they believed in the faith of the Seven, which forbid slavery as an abomination. His men were all outcasts for one reason or the other, else they would not become sellswords, but he was rather certain that a majority of them believed in the Seven or the Old Gods, and agreed with his opinion of slavery.

Jack huffed in reply to Idumm’s statement. “They will get their wish. Though if that proves favourable for them... we’ll see.” The Volantenes were starting to become desperate. Jack had led several sieges and this one was one of the longest. Despite their well-filled storages, the men and women and children inside were starting to starve by now. Sieges were craven and dishonorable – maybe not on the level of poison, but if he had the choice, he would always only fight openly. It was craven and dishonorable by their employer to send them to siege a city, and it was even more craven and dishonorable by the Volantene triarchs to neither fight them nor surrender. Desperation was gnawing at their bones now, in rhythm with their hunger, and it would be the weakest who would die first: the very old, the very young, and of course, the poor. Jack had spoken to King Baelor, and together they had decided to force a battle soon. Soldiers died in battle. The old and the poor and the children would live to see another day. Once Volantis’ walls fell, Myr and Lys and Norvos would stream in to conquer it, and they would bring food with them. Besides, the hungrier the Volantenes became, the more desperate they would grow. Jack had fought desperate men too often – it was nothing he was particularly keen on.

Turning his horse around, Jack rode back to their encampment. They were spread around the city, wide enough to make sure no supplier could crawl through, but far enough away to avoid being attacked by longbows. The Myrish fleet was anchored in the harbor, and the Norvoshi fleet in the river Rhoyne. He did not know nor care what the conflict between Lys, Myr, and Norvos on the one hand and Volantis on the other hand was about. As captain-general, having this knowledge was no part of his job. His job was to get results. King Baelor had discussed these matters with men from their employers, and his word was all that Jack needed. Once he had arrived back within their encampment at his tent, he gave Idumm his horse to take care of it before he entered his tent to prepare for the night. The tent was small but comfortable. It was not comparable to the rooms he had lived in two decades ago, when he had been his father’s heir at Riverrun; but everything was adequate. He had a decent, though small, bed, some chairs, chests with his belongings inside, and a rather large table with maps of the city and its surroundings sprawled out on it. Jack took off his heavy armor with a sigh._ I am not growing any younger_. Before he could relax, though, he would have to take supper, and went outside to go get it. Some of the less talented soldiers were on cooking duty, and Jack treated himself to two portions of their rather average-tasting stew – beets, dried meat, and a kind of Essosi plant he did not know. It was good for morale that the captain-general ate with the men, he had found often, and many faces greeted him with a smile.

Back in his tent, he chewed on a stale piece of black bread as he lounged on his chair and drew close the maps of Volantis. A handful of candles filled the tent with light, and Jack did not even notice that it was turning dark outside until the flaps of the tent opening were pushed to the side. He looked up from his map and frowned when he recognized the face of none other than Ryan peeking inside, who grinned at him in the manner of a cat who had just caught a fat, juicy mouse.

“Ryan,” he greeted his friend, but his frown had not disappeared. “You are back already?” He had not expected Ryan back for seven days or more. The man had left just this morn, and usually, Ryan’s little trips took at least a week. Ryan often mounted his horse and left. Early on in their friendship, Jack has asked him why he did this. Ryan had answered that he saw no reason to explain himself: either Jack understood why he left for his trips, or he did not, and both were fine, but he would not take from Jack the opportunity to figure out why he needed these trips. Jack had not understood that reaction, as much as he did not understand Ryan’s need to undertake these dangerous trips. But the man always brought something back, and so he tolerated this behavior. Gold and gems, jewelry and mysterious, magical artifacts, once even the head of a wanted man. However, he had never once brought back a living man, which was about to change.

Ryan stepped into the tent as if he had no care in the world. “I am,” he agreed pleasantly. A man trailed after him, his stance betraying the slightest insecurity hidden behind a proud swagger. The man was smaller than Ryan by a head or more, but he was a warrior, that was obvious on the very first glance. He was dressed in fine steel, for one. It was rather old, with little dents and scratches all over it, but well taken care of. This was a man who scrubbed his armor clean daily. He held a helmet in his left hand, in the same proper condition as the armor. There was a bastard sword at his belt and a battle-axe strapped to his back and, Jack assumed, a collection of knives between his leathers too. He did not wear a cloak like him and Ryan, and his tall brown boots were caked in mud, sand, and dirt. A bag dangled from his back beneath his axe. Then, Jack’s attention shifted to his face. His head was covered in short brown hair and his cheeks in a wild, tangled beard of the same color, as if he had never even heard of the existence of razors. Beneath the hair and beard, Jack noticed several small white scars. But the most prominent feature about him were his eyes. They were of a common brown like his hair, but the expression that lay within was as sharp as the blade on Jack’s hip. The insecure stance, the unkempt appearance, the small size: it was all overshadowed by this piercing gaze. It was a gaze Jack had seen often at Aenys Targaryen’s court, a lifetime ago, worn by ambitious, power-hungry courtiers and overreaching servants alike. It was only ever worn by people who were keenly aware not only of their skills but also of their goals, and how to reach the latter with the former. It was also ever worn by people Jack would not trust to keep his secrets, as their loyalty lay only with those who could feed their ambition best. And, finally, it was a sharp glint he knew well from Ryan’s eyes.

The tent was closed behind Ryan and his foundling. “May I make introductions,” Ryan said smoothly, in that voice he used when he wanted to please. “Ser Jack Tully, captain-general of the Golden Company, Hero of the Massacre at Massey’s Hook, Terror of Norvos, rightful heir to Riverrun and the Trident, Red Jack for his friends and foes, and _Captain_ if you should find yourself in battle next to him.” Ryan’s tone was flippant and half-amused, which made Jack raise an eyebrow. Then, Ryan turned to face the man he had brought with him, and the expression on his face had Jack frowning. It had taken Jack years to even start trusting Ryan. He still remembered the first time they had met, and the way Ryan had fixed him with a gaze as cold and hard like steel. It was a stark contrast to how he looked at this knight, with an oddly soft affection that was half amused and half surprised, as if Ryan himself couldn’t quite believe what he had gotten himself into. Jack shared his surprise, yet not his amusement at this development. There was no place in a sellsword’s life for affection. Death followed them closely, in the camp or on the battlefield. “And this is Ser Jeremy of Longsister, a hedgeknight, tourney victor, and veteran of the Battle of the Ghosts. He seeks employ with us.”

Ser Jeremy of Longsister stood ramrod straight while Ryan introduced him, and was watching Jack like a hawk. A Valeman then – their men were famed for their chivalric traditions, and many a legendary knight could boast his roots deep in these harsh mountains. Even commoners could come far if they showed prowess with a sword and honor in battle. Jack made a humming sound before he stepped forward and extended his right hand. Ser Jeremy hesitated only a second before he grasped it tightly with his own. Jack smiled at him. The man might be ambitious, but that hunger could be slaked easily within his ranks. An ambitious fighter made for a successful fighter, and the company was always in demand of these. “Ser Jeremy,” Jack welcomed him in a friendly tone, “it is good to make your acquaintance. My own mother was from the Vale, a Grafton of Gulltown, and I visited this famed city with her in my youth.”

Ser Jeremy squeezed his hand tightly and let go. When he replied, the harsh shimmer in his eyes was gone, and instead he was all amiable pleasantries. “Ser Jack,” he replied, his voice strong and affable. “Every child in Westeros knows your name and your deeds, and maidens from Lannisport to Gulltown pray for your return to your rightful seat.” Jack almost scoffed – yes, the first he believed, the killer of their beloved prince was infamous, but the second was true only in his father’s dreams. Yet he kept his face agreeable. “It is my greatest honor to meet you. Perhaps my long voyage to the walls of Volantis was worth all its troubles just for this moment.” At that, Jack had to smile, rather sincere despite his attempt not to react to the compliment.

“Ser Jeremy, if you use your sword half as well as your words, then you must be a great knight indeed,” Jack replied, his tone both flattered and dry. Ryan chuckled, and Ser Jeremy’s face split into a grin.

“I can assure you I do,” Ser Jeremy replied easily, drawing his shoulders up. It made him seem a bit taller. “Ser Jack, I have come all the way from the Vale to fight by your side. There is little gold in Westeros for a hedgeknight, and even less glory. Peace is making the lords and the peasants fat and placid. The only fights I fought in the past three years were petty squabbles, and they paid me in copper rather than silver. Give me a chance to prove my worth and I will swear fealty to your Blackfyre king and fight his battles.”

The knight continued to use his words well. Jack remained skeptical. There had been four men so far who had been employed by the Targaryen king to join the Golden Company and thrust a dagger into King Baelor’s back as soon as it was opportune. He had been able to stop these assassinations every time, but they left him wary of new recruits. His silence made this hesitation plain, apparently, because Ryan spoke up. His friend was leaning against one of the tent poles gingerly, a few feet away from both Jack and Ser Jeremy. “He saved my life out there, Jack,” he said, in a serious tone. “I had bandits on my heels. Not one, not two, but six. Jeremy was willing to help for the merest mention of coin.” Ser Jeremy did not seem to like this, as he grimaced for a second. It seemed that Ryan did not notice. “A born sellsword, in my opinion. And a man without whose brave actions I would not be standing here.”

Jack pondered this. He had learned to trust Ryan’s instincts, although it often displeased him. He looked at Ser Jeremy’s sharp brown eyes, trying to see deep down into his soul, before he arrived at his decision. “Hm. A gold coin a year, its value paid in silver coins each month or as the gold coin at the end of the year, and three daily meals and water are provided. Exceptional brave or useful deeds are rewarded accordingly. Good wine to wash down the taste of blood after every battle.” These were generous terms, offered to well-trained recruits only. No other mercenary company could boast similarly generous terms. “And the possibility to receive land if you prove yourself once our king retakes Westeros.” Ser Jeremy nodded throughout his offer, seemingly pleased, as any man with a proper head on his shoulder would be. “You will fight battles that are not your own, in which you have no stake, and no love for your employer but the love for gold. Glory will be a matter of luck as much as skill, if not more so. Death will be close behind you at all times.”

“This is a hedgeknight’s life,” Ser Jeremy answered rather unconcered. “But unlike a hedgeknight, a sellsword has companions, and that is worth as much as the coins we’re given.” This answer took Jack aback, but he did not let that show.

“You accept, then?”

“I do,” Ser Jeremy replied boldly.

“Very well. Welcome to the Golden Company, Ser Jeremy.”

A moment of silence passed between the three men. Jack, fixated on Ser Jeremy, took his gaze off the man to look at Ryan instead. Ryan smiled one of the smiles he thought hidden, but which were plain as sight for Jack. The moment he noticed Jack was looking at him, his smile fell; his tone remained cheerful, however. “Good! Jack, Jeremy and I won a battle today, remember? I believe this calls for some Arbor gold to celebrate.” With this, he made his way over to a chest of Jack’s, taking for granted that Jack would not stop him. Jack smiled indulgently and observed Ser Jeremy. The man was staring at Ryan’s back in a highly focused manner and averted his gaze quickly once Ryan turned around, having procured three glasses and a bottle of sweet white wine.

An hour later, the bottle was empty, as was a second bottle, but spirits were high. They were sitting around Jack’s map table, albeit the map had been pushed aside to make space for an impromptu arm wrestling tourney – Ser Jeremy had emerged as its victor and been rewarded with Jack getting out the second bottle. Ryan was currently retelling a story Jack had heard a million times before, of his short and unsuccessful career in the Citadel and how he had driven the maesters quite mad. Ser Jeremy laughed loud and boisterous, as if it was the funniest thing he had ever heard in his life, and perhaps it was. Ryan had a certain talent for telling stories – if not for his fighting skill, Jack thought, he would have made an exceptionally entertaining mummer. Ser Jeremy was bending over from his laughter, his hand tight around Ryan’s upper arm for support, while Ryan was laughing with him, and Jack found himself laughing too. That man’s laughter was rather contagious. He would do wonders for the morale of the men, he sensed, which had been deteriorating steadily over the course of the siege. “And he actually thought the _pig _did all that?!” Ser Jeremy was asking incredulously before he sipped his wine, and Ryan used the opportunity to play-act as the old maester: “I never knew pigs could do that! In that case, I regret all that ham I ate this morning!” That reply made Ser Jeremy snort out the wine he had just drunk, and that in turn had Ryan devolve into laughter again. Some of the wine had landed on Jack’s map, where the red drops were drying rapidly.

Jack leaned back while the other two kept joking with the other. After a while, the conversation grew calmer, and he took a good opportunity to interrupt the cajoling. “Ser Jeremy, I am certain you are hungry after your long voyage. There will still be some of today’s stew left. I wouldn’t want my newest recruit to succumb to hunger on his first day.” Ser Jeremy looked at him first with a certain sluggish confusion before understanding dawned on his features.

“Yes,” he said while he stood up and nodded at Jack. “Thank you for your great hospitality, ser. You will not regret hiring me.” Jack smiled at him and inclined his head in turn. Ryan stood too, but Jack reached out for him.  
  
“Ryan, I am in need of your counsel,” he told him, and Ryan nodded. He grasped Ser Jeremy’s hand. The men looked intensely at each other before Ser Jeremy let go of Ryan, turned, and left the tent. _It took Ryan years to warm up to me like this,_ Jack thought, not without a hint of jealousy. _The little man is endearing without a doubt, but not to that extent. Has he cast some kind of a spell on Ryan?  
  
_Ryan sat down again. Jack looked at him pensively while Ryan regarded him, in turn, warily. Silence stretched for a while. “You know that he is not trustworthy, right?” Jack asked in a calm voice.  
  
“Certainly,” Ryan replied a bit too quickly. “But I know his type. We’ve got many of his kind, do we not? Willing to do whatever it takes for a sliver of glory. I think he is dependable on the battlefield, because it forces us to share the same goal. But apart from that... no.”  
  
“Yet you just seemed awfully fond of him,” Jack prodded, which made Ryan bristle. His good humor had left the tent together with Ser Jeremy, it seemed.  
  
“I would not trust him further than I could throw him. He seems able to keep secrets, but only as long as keeping them pays better than the opposite.”  
  
“Swear it, then. That man will not know any of our secrets. Not mine, nor yours, and most certainly not those of our king.”  
  
Ryan nodded. “I swear it, Jack.” His voice was soft.  
  
Satisfied, Jack drew close the map of Volantis. “Good. Now, I would like to discuss a more important matter. We will force a confrontation with Volantis in two days. I was thinking of assaulting the Gate of the Stars first, to draw out the archers...”

As the candles around them burnt down, they talked strategy, and the moon rose slowly over a camp of ten thousand men hungry for battle.


	5. JEREMY II

An elephant’s foot landed where Jeremy had stood a second before. His heart was racing in his throat at the sight, but the Stranger would not claim him today, he told himself with false conviction as he spurred his shying mare away from the beast. No, he would not die now. Not now that his life was finally turning upwards again. He was in the midst of a frenzied battle, with countless Volantenes dead by his axe. He had a full belly and ten thousand valiant comrades by his side. The promise of glory and riches lay as heavy in the air as the copper smell of blood. Jeremy was a true knight again, with a horse instead of a mule and with an army behind him. He even looked the part again! He had used the prior day to shave his head and the most unruly parts of his beard, until only a ring of hair around his mouth remained. Now he felt strong, ready to face any battle, and even the elephant could not scare him. It was a massive grey beast, larger even than in the stories Jeremy had heard of these creatures, and as he forced his horse away from it, he took the opportunity to examine it from up close. 

The elephant turned from Jeremy to an easier target, one without a horse. The beast was armored in filigreed chainmail from its back down to its toes. There were five of them in total on the battlefield. They all had two men riding them: one in the front, armored in chainmail like his mount, holding a thick bridle attached to the elephant's mouth, and one man behind him, armed with a bag filled with stones that he threw down at the unlucky sellswords next to the elephant. Jeremy looked at the elephant a second longer, before all of a sudden, a pale man with long dark hair attacked him with a mace. Jeremy turned his mare around and had her charge the man before he drew his battle-axe to chop off his head. There was not a single second to breathe – the next attackers came immediately, and Jeremy fended them off easily as he led his horse away from the trumpeting elephant.

Jeremy had ridden into battle in the vanguard led by Ser Jack Tully, but he had lost sight of the red–haired warrior soon. He had spent some hours with Ryan yesterday, both of them engrossed in battle preparations. They had discussed strategies as well as past battles they had fought in, and Jeremy had laughed harder than the subject matter should have made him laugh – but Ryan had such a wonderful way with words that Jeremy had been endlessly amused all the same. Ryan led the right flank today, so Jeremy had not seen him, and in between slashing at his opponents from atop his mare, Jeremy wondered whether glory was raining down on him just as it did on Jeremy. In that exact moment, as if the gods listened to his thoughts, a shout from Jeremy’s left grabbed his attention – not due to its volume, barely audible beneath the battle noise, but because he recognized Ryan’s voice immediately. 

“Ser Jeremy!” was the shout, and Jeremy turned his head towards the sound in time to spot Ryan riding up to him on his splendid black horse. The stallion’s eyes were crazed and he was foaming at the mouth as he kicked wildly and hit a Volantene soldier square in his chest even as Ryan drew up next to Jeremy. His midnight blue cloak billowed behind him, and under the unyielding Essosi sun, the bronze brooch clasping it to Ryan’s shoulder glinted. Ryan’s boots and his sword were coated in blood, but else he looked remarkably untouched.

“Watch out for the elephant!” Jeremy shouted back over the battle noise. Ryan threw a wary gaze at the huge beast. It was sluggishly moving towards them while simultaneously attempting to crush their companions beneath its giant feet. Ryan leant to his side where a saddlebag was hanging over his steed’s armor and procured a thickly braided rope. He threw one end of it to Jeremy, who caught it instinctively.

“We shall bring it down,” Ryan yelled as he attached his end of the rope to his horse’s reins. “Ride towards it, then cross over and draw in two different directions. The monster’s strong, but it can’t be stronger than two horses!”

“It very well _ can_!” Jeremy replied, aghast. Did Ryan truly believe they could kill the elephant, just the two of them? “Seven hells, Ryan! That plan is madness!”

Ryan grinned at him in that blinding manner he had. “_Ryan the Mad_, remember?”

The elephant came closer. Jeremy hesitated, the end of the rope in his hand. Ryan looked at him, his eyes wide with expectation. “It _ will _ trample us to death,” Jeremy argued, but his resolve was weakened considerably by Ryan's wolfish grin. 

Ryan shrugged. “Fortune favors the bold,” he countered breezily. “Besides, valar morghulis, good ser. All men must die. If we must die, let us do so shining brighter than the sun." Jeremy regarded him warily, but he seemed absolutely convinced of his words.

“Mad,” Jeremy replied, shaking his head. _ Valar morghulis, _ he repeated the foreign words to himself and gripped the rope tighter. This was what he had come here to do, was it not? Slaying a ten thousand pound war elephant was the very _ definition _ of glory. He breathed in and nodded, once, sharply, at Ryan. “Let us not waste time talking, then!”

Ryan grinned, his teeth sharp as a lion’s, and nodded. Jeremy tied the rope to his reins as Ryan had done, and then they both turned their horses towards the elephant. With a battle–cry, they rode towards it, Jeremy on its left side and Ryan on its right side. They stretched the rope across its breastplate, then across its flank, one on each side, as they rode further on. Behind the elephant, they crossed their horses diagonally, Ryan riding towards the left and Jeremy riding towards the right, ducking below the rope spanning behind Ryan. That was when the elephant riders noticed what was happening. The man with the stones began throwing rocks at them frantically. Jeremy deflected them with his shield while Ryan dodged them skillfully. Words of Valyrian were shouted, and the Volantene soldiers around them all turned their heads towards their horses. The horse beneath Jeremy struggled forward just as the elephant behind them struggled to walk; the rope was thick and held him in place. It trumpeted, a loud and angry sound. 

The first soldiers reached Jeremy. His horse was not yet armored and only wore a wide grey blanket beneath the saddle, so they posed a true danger. Instead of his battle axe, which he could only use with two hands, he grabbed his bastard sword from its scabbard. Jeremy kept his left hand tight around the reins and slashed at the attackers with his sword in the right hand. There were many of the enemy warriors around him, and almost none around Ryan, he saw with a glance at his companion. To save the elephant, they only needed to bring one horse down, and Ryan’s destrier snapped all around himself while Jeremy's mare was not even armored… The choice which to attack was likely very easy. A man slashed at Jeremy’s knees, where the joints of his armor met, and his blade found flesh. Jeremy yelped in pain. “Hang on!” came Ryan’s voice, and a second later the man lay on the ground with an arrow through his throat. Jeremy threw a glance at Ryan, who was lowering his shortbow and looking right at him, worry creasing his brow. He nodded at him grimly before he gritted his teeth through the pain flaring up in his knee.

They kept riding on, through the enemies, and a half-minute later, Jeremy knew their struggle was rewarded when he felt a sharp tug at the rope. He turned his head in time to see the elephant stumble before it fell to its knees gracelessly, then to its side. Jeremy hacked loose the rope attached to his reins – no time to untie it – and turned his horse around sharply. With a swift jump, she was on the other side of the elephant, where he drove his sword into the rider’s chest as he blocked a spear with his shield. The deed done, he whipped his head around to Ryan, and his heart stopped when he could not spot him.

“Ryan!” he yelled before he saw the man a second later. He lay sprawled on the ground, his stallion on top of his left side and the elephant’s hind leg on top of both of them. Ryan’s helmet was gone, apparently lost in the battle, and his face was white as ash. He stared at the mangled horse, aghast. Jeremy drove his mare to Ryan’s side with sickening fear in the pit of his stomach. “Get up!” he yelled once he was close enough, but Ryan did not seem to hear. Jeremy had seen this often enough in battle. The maesters called it shock: men who suffered grievous injury often lost all sense of where they were and what was happening, their entire body shutting down to concentrate on survival. It had cost more lives than Jeremy could count, and now it seemed that it would take Ryan's as well. The destrier was whinnying miserably, his anger subdued by his pain, and Jeremy once again saw himself faced with a decision. 

He could leave Ryan to his fate. Alone, he would die without a doubt. If it was not the shock doing him in, the enemy would put him to death. There was a small empty circle around the elephant where people had jumped out of the falling animal’s way, but they were already beginning to fill the space again. If he did that, Jeremy could keep fighting, perhaps bring down another elephant with the same technique, win the battle for them with certainty, and make a name for himself. Or he could descend his horse, which would put him in immense danger, and would lead to him losing the mare to the chaos of the battle, to help a half–dead man with a crushed side. If Ryan were to be given any chance at survival, Jeremy would have to escort him off the battlefield, back to their company’s encampment, while fighting off attackers thirsting for the easy prey they would make. There would be no songs sung of Jeremy’s part in this battle, if he survived at all. And even then, Ryan looked in bad shape. What if he lost his arm? Would he not prefer to die a warrior’s death than to live on after such an injury, maimed and poor, to end his life begging in the streets? And it was not as if Jeremy had a duty to him. He had saved Ryan’s life once before, when he had had even less of a reason to do so. They were not brothers, barely even brothers-in-arms. Jeremy tugged at his mare’s reins and led her away from the other sellsword. _ Valar morghulis, Ryan said it himself. All men must die, and there is nothing any of us can do against that. If he is lucky, he will not feel any pain. _As he thought these grim thoughts, Jeremy’s stomach felt as if there was a hole within, but he had felled his decision: he would not help Ryan.

A Volantene soldier attacked Jeremy and ripped him out of his thoughts. He defended himself with his sword whose point clashed against the man’s spear. He was quick on his feet, however, and stabbed at Jeremy again and again while evading his attacks. Pain shot through him when the tip of the spear found its way beneath his helmet from below, drawing blood from his neck. Jeremy swore and drove his blade down, slashing deep into the man’s shoulder, and he stumbled to his knees. With a shaking hand, Jeremy touched his neck. His fingers came away wet with blood, but it was not deep. What cut deeper was the realization that the attack had cut through his necklace, and that he could not feel it around his neck anymore. He wore the bird he had looted from the corpse a few days prior around his neck. A talisman for the battle to come, he had told himself. The bird was beauty, a glimpse of sunlight in a life darkened by hunger, desperation, and violence. It was an omen for a time to come, when Jeremy would bathe in beauty always. It was a reminder that it was the little things that were lovely about life, not the big ones, not coin nor fame. And Jeremy had lost it. He looked down at the ground before him. A single bright light caught his eye, buried between mud and blood, and before he knew what was happening, Jeremy jumped off his horse, fell to his knees, and grabbed the pendant from where it lay glinting. 

Men cried out in pain around him, but for a second, Jeremy felt at peace as he regarded the small piece of jewelry. He thought of Ryan. How could he have been so foolish to decide against saving him? They had known each other for less than a week, yet Jeremy had seen that man’s beauty even before he had learnt his name. He would not let him slide out of his grasp just like that. Clasping the pendant around his neck again, he turned around and sprinted to his companion’s side. A man was standing above him, sword in hand and a murderous gaze, and Ryan was still as pale as fresh summer snow. With a roar, Jeremy charged the attacker, grabbing him by the waist and wrestling him to the ground, where he punched the man right into his face. With the enemy lying dazed, he jumped to his feet and knelt by Ryan’s side. “Ryan!” he shouted, but he did not hear him. Grunting, Jeremy grabbed him by his shoulders and began to drag him out from under his horse. That got him attention. Ryan’s head whipped around to face him, his eyes wide and bloodshot. 

“What’s happening,” he croaked out, panic clearly boiling just below his tongue, making his voice throaty and pitiful. 

“We’re getting out of here,” Jeremy replied and heaved. His muscles strained under the effort. Ryan was taller than him, and heavier, and right now he felt like a bag of wet sand. 

“The battle’s not over yet,” Ryan said as if he were in any condition to fight on. “I have to fight.” His gaze was scared, Jeremy realized before he heaved again, panting heavily. Ryan was moving slightly, and he was partly free from the weight above him again. “We have to win. For the King… Baelor. He needs me...” 

“King Baelor is not here,” Jeremy answered, unsure whether Ryan knew what he was saying. Likely not. The battle raged on around them and they did not have much time, and Ryan had to cooperate for Jeremy to make any progress. “Ryan, you must help me! Push yourself, use your legs!” 

That made Ryan turn around to face the mountain of animal flesh resting atop his body. He was deadly silent for a second, and then he screamed a wordless scream before he fell unconscious. 

Jeremy pulled one last time and freed him. His left arm was mangled inside of his armor, that much he could see, but there was no time to consider this now. The hardest part was just beginning. The next hour passed in a blur, but somehow Jeremy managed what seemed to be impossible: he got Ryan off the battlefield. He remembered carrying him for a while, then dragging him over the ground, then carrying him again, all the while fending off enemy soldiers. He had to get rid of some parts of his heavy armor in the process, as his strength left him after a while – armor that had cost him a fortune – but in the end, he arrived at the encampment of the Golden Company. Beaten, bruised, and bloody as they were, they were also alive, and Jeremy sent up his prayers to the Seven once he brought Ryan to the company’s healer. A prayer to the Warrior, for aiding his fighting today, a prayer to the Father and one to the Mother for protecting him, a prayer to the Smith for his equipment, a prayer to the Crone for guiding his path back, even a prayer to the Maiden for reminding him of beauty.

“A minute later,” said the healer, “and he would have been dead for good. You saved his life, ser.” 

And a prayer to the Stranger, not for sparing _ his _ life today, but for sparing Ryan’s.


	6. JACK II

**JACK II**

**300 AC, encampment of the Golden Company and on the road**

The king cut a splendid figure. He was dressed in red and black, his doublet was velvet and brilliantly dyed ermine fur was bordering his cloak. The summer air simmered around them. From outside the tent, the noises of men drunk on victory reached them, jubilations and exuberant songs bellowed rather than sung. Inside the tent, however, it was quiet. Ser Jeremy was kneeling on the ground before King Baelor, and Jack stood beside his king, both their gazes glued to the kneeling knight. This man was the reason Ryan was still alive, albeit it had been a close call. Ryan had been feverish for a day and a night and had woken this morning with a clear mind – at least it was clear enough to tell Baelor and Jack what exactly had happened. He could not remember much, only that Jeremy and he had brought one of the elephants down, and then Jeremy’s face as he lay on the ground beneath his horse. Their company’s maester was positive about his recovery, thank the gods: it would take some weeks, but the worst was weathered. The only thing still in doubt was whether he would regain the strength in his left arm, crushed as it was from his horse’s weight. Ryan was right-handed, however, and he would be able to fight with a shortsword or a bastard sword until then. Only bows and two-handed blades would challenge him. But he was alive. Baelor had looked close to death himself when Jack had brought him the news of Ryan’s condition, and now the king was overflowing with gratitude for the man who had saved his life.

“Once we take back my rightful realm, you will receive a lordship,” Baelor said now, his voice solemn and serious. Jeremy was looking up at him out of his big brown eyes.

“Your Grace, this is not necessary. I merely did as a knight must do. Leaving my fellow warrior behind did not even cross my mind, let alone _ actually _ leaving him.” His voice was strong and Jack would almost be convinced by these confident words if he had not pegged Jeremy for a honourless liar the moment they had met.

“And still. Not all knights keep true to their vows. I know this better than most, or they would have all fought for my father instead of the pretender on the throne. Ryan may be lowborn, yet he is one of my best men. You saved him while endangering yourself, a second time if Jack speaks true, and you shall be rewarded handsomely for this. It is the least I can do.” 

At these words, Jeremy bowed his bald head closer to the ground. “Your Grace, in this case I thank you with all my heart. Your generosity knows no bounds.” 

The two exchanged more pleasantries while Jack looked on, before the king bade his farewell to look after the other men. Jeremy rose from his knees and threw a sharp glance at Jack, who raised his eyebrows in answer. Both of them remained silent until the king had left the tent, and then another few seconds.

“With the company for barely a week, and already a castle waiting for you,” Jack commented, his tone dry. Jeremy looked at him, the very picture of innocence. “You are quite an achiever, Ser Jeremy.” 

“Ser Jack,” Jeremy replied easily, “I am humbled by the king’s generosity. All I care about is Ryan’s survival. I would have _ given _a castle to assure this.” 

“I do not know whether he will have much pleasure of this survival,” Jack replied, with worry seeping into his voice. He had only been able to talk with Ryan for a little while in the morning, but he had seemed oddly detached from everything, more-so than would be expected of a man awakening from a fever lasting three dozen hours. None but their maester, Jack, and the king himself had been allowed by his bedside during that time. In the grip of his delirium, Ryan had spoken of many things Jack knew he would not have anyone know. But now that his wits had returned, he was fit to talk to others as well, and he would be able to tell Ser Jeremy all his thoughts on having saved him. “But he should tell you this himself. Would you care to talk to him now?” This would be the first time Jeremy would talk to Ryan after his heroic rescue. 

Ser Jeremy nodded enthusiastically, which made him look a bit like an endearing puppy. His head shorn and his beard trimmed, he looked much less ragged than when Jack had met him, but the shadows beneath his eyes made him seem older than that day a week ago. “Come,” he said, and together they made their way through the encampment to Ryan’s tent. The maester had ordered to move him there, to minimize the chance of him catching a disease from any of the other injured people in the maester’s tent. When Jack entered, Ser Jeremy behind him, Ryan lay on his field bed, close to the ground, faced towards the entry. His face lit up as he recognized the visitors, and with a grunt, he sat up, his right hand pushing him off the bed. The maester was present, sitting by a table ten feet from Ryan, and greeted them before he bowed low over a potion he was mixing with some water. Jack walked up to Ryan and stopped an arm’s length away from the bed, and Ser Jeremy came to stand next to him. He looked down at Ryan, although Jeremy was small enough that he did not have to look down much. Jack greeted Ryan, who nodded at him politely before he turned towards his other visitor.

“Ser Jeremy,” Ryan said, his voice strained and quieter than it should be. Although his sweat had been washed off, his hair still stood in wild angles and his blue eyes were sunken deeply into his face. His face was a carefully composed mask of calm. Jack hated seeing him like this, not just because his friend was in pain, but also because it scared him. Such a carefully composed Ryan, he knew, was a dangerous Ryan. And Jeremy seemed to have the good sense to share this apprehension: he swallowed drily before he spoke. 

“Ryan,” Ser Jeremy said, as quiet as the other man. Jack regarded both of them warily; it seemed they had momentarily forgotten about his existence. 

“You saved my life,” Ryan said, eyes closing for a second while he sighed. Jeremy fidgeted where he stood. “At the cost of my left arm.” Ryan opened his eyes again, his gaze fixed on Ser Jeremy. Ryan had very blue eyes, especially when he was furious, and Jack had never seen them bluer than now. 

Jeremy remained silent. 

“I am a sellsword. What will I sell, pray tell, if I cannot swing a sword? You denied me a honourable, glorious death on the battlefield. Is this what you would have wished for yourself? Is this–” 

“Ryan,” Jeremy tried to interrupt, but Ryan’s eyes narrowed, and he kept speaking, louder than before. His cheeks, covered in brown-blond fuzz, were reddening. He was being rather dramatic, Jack found, and yet this was understandable. If he were in this same situation, he would not be quite this angry, Jack felt, but his frustration with the injustice of his fate would drive him dangerously close to an outburst like Ryan. 

“Is this what _ you _ would have wanted for yourself? Surely not! You would have wanted to die on the battlefield, sword in hand and head held high! All _ you _want is glory and gold, I did not forget, and I’m sure you got these from this foolish act, and plenty! Did the King reward you well?” 

“He promised me a castle,” Ser Jeremy mumbled, almost too quiet for Jack to understand. Ryan’s eyes narrowed and his voice grew louder in his fury. 

“A castle! Oh, _ yes,_ no doubt that is worth my life! And what a life it will be, from now on!” Bitter irony bled into his tone. He raised his left arm, bandages tightly wound around it, and a deep ache crossed his features before the arm flopped back down onto the bed like a dead fish. He made a pained sound before he continued, louder than before, almost shouting. “They will all look down on me! No more _ Ryan the Mad,_ I’ll be _One-Armed Ryan_ from today on, and that if I’m lucky! _Ryan the Fool! _How can men follow me into battle, now that they know I’m just like them? The company’s soldiers followed me blindly, now they’ll laugh at me, or worse, pity me! Do you have any idea what this means? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” 

Jeremy mumbled something, his eyes fixed on Ryan’s. This time, Jack couldn’t understand what he was saying, but Ryan obviously could, and reacted immediately. His face fell. Red cheeks paled until they were colored a stunned white. He stared at Jeremy for a few moments before he looked away, gaze cast down to the ground. Silence stretched over the two men, a silence as suffocating as a shroud. A shroud needed a corpse, and Jack could not decide who was the corpse now: Ryan, whose face was deathly white, or Jeremy, who was so still he seemed like a marble statue. Jack heard his own breathing amplified a thousand times in his ears. Whatever Jeremy had said to him, Ryan had not taken it well. He was shivering. In his current state, weakened by fever and injury and in the tight grip of grief, he was capable of following his lowest impulses, Jack feared. He would not put it past him to lash out and attack where they were, dig his fingers into Jeremy’s neck and press down on his windpipe. Ryan had killed for less – far less. Jack’s fingers twitched towards his sword. If anything happened, he would have to pacify the situation. When Ryan’s mouth opened, Jack grabbed the hilt of his sword, no doubt that the next words he would speak would announce Jeremy’s death, and unsheathed it to the half-way point. 

“What?” All passionate fury, all embittered revulsion, all strangled serenity were gone from Ryan’s tone. All that remained was a very small voice, soft and dark at the same time, like the roots of a dying tree slowly withering after a forest fire. 

Jeremy cleared his throat. “You heard me right,” he said, and now curiosity filled Jack instead of apprehension. What had Jeremy mumbled to Ryan just now? “I couldn’t– I just couldn’t leave you there after I realized that. You were so valiant and brave in that battle, and you’re such a– you’re a– hm. It is very easy to admire you, Ryan. Perhaps they’ll call you _Ryan the Fool_. I don’t think they will. But if anyone is foolish between us, it is me.” 

“Oh,” Ryan said, slow and careful, and looked up at Jeremy. They stared at each other for a few quiet moments. “I did not mean to– uh– by which I do not– I mean… I do not know if... “ 

Sometimes Ryan stumbled over his words like this, Jack knew, especially when he was very nervous. Instead of asking for clarification for these incoherent ramblings, however, Jeremy merely nodded as if he understood what Ryan was saying. And perhaps he did. From the moment Jack had seen the two together, they had seemed to speak to each other with something as small as a single word, a single glance, a single breath. 

With a low swishing sound, he sheathed his sword again. Two heads whipped around to look at him. Ryan’s brow furrowed and Jeremy looked honestly surprised. They had the distinct look of a pair of children caught with their hands in a jar filled with lemoncakes. 

“You both forgot I was present,” Jack stated, which brought a lightly abashed look to Ryan’s face. He shot him an apologetic smile.

“Who could ever forget your presence, Jack,” Ryan said, his voice back to normal, a smooth and more than welcome sound. “Certainly not us.” 

“Very right,” Jeremy supplied immediately, his eyes as big and round as a doe’s and his tone just as innocent. “In contrast, I believe it is _impossible _to overlook you. Red Jack fills every room he steps into, right up to the brim!” The graceless dig at Jack’s size had Ryan snort amused, and that was the only reason Jack tolerated it from Jeremy. 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s easier to overlook me than to _not _ overlook _you_, small as you are, Ser Jeremy.” That made Ryan snort again, and judging from Jeremy’s less than offended expression, he was pleased with verbal attacks as long as it had this pleasant side-effect. _That makes two of us_, Jack thought. _If Jeremy is willing to swallow his pride for Ryan’s sake, perhaps he is not as bad as I thought. _

They continued a conversation, light and liberated from Ryan’s morose anger, for a few more minutes before the maester had them leave the room with the assertion that Ryan needed rest, and much for it, for the next hours. 

The hours continued into days, then into weeks. With the siege of Volantis finished, Jack talked one last time with the men of the alliance, and the company received the last share of its gold. Jack paid the men generously, and a great celebration marked the day they received their payment. The next contract was waiting already. Norvos wanted them to march north and be present during ‘diplomatic’ talks with Lorath. Hired by Norvos, the Golden Company would not be available for Lorath, and that was often intimidation enough. Still, Norvos thought their actual presence would be even more of an intimidation, and so they were required to actually march all the way up north to Lorath. 

Jack had his hands so very full with the demands of the organization that he felt like a mummer, juggling an entire basket of balls and praying fervently that they would not come down upon his head. It left him little time to watch Ryan’s progress, but he visited him regularly. More oft than not, Ser Jeremy sat with him and Jack entered the tent to the sound of laughter before he sent the knight out to make himself useful. And that, Jeremy did. He was not literate, but Jack very quickly discovered that he performed any simple task extraordinarily well, and grudgingly, he began giving him more difficult tasks – counting their supplies, handling the more difficult men, and more. He was mostly walking around camp, but Jack saw him on the back of a sorrel gelding from time to time, and when he asked the knight where that horse was from, Jeremy grinned and told him a clearly fabricated story about how he had stolen it from a Volantene noble. Jack did not ask again, but instead reminded Jeremy that thievery was not looked upon fondly in the company. 

Ryan left the tent the day they began their march northwards. His left arm and hand were still useless, but he began to spar with anyone willing to fight him. His fears, it turned out, had been unfounded. None dared make fun of Ryan the Mad now that he effectively used only one arm; the very opposite was the case. Men were awed by the story of how he had brought down the elephant. Several of them had been injured by the beast and thanked him profusely – for his courage as well as his sacrifice. If this surprised Ryan, he did not let it show, and gracefully accepted their gratitude. When he was sparring, it was obvious that he was used to fighting with a two-hander, but even his attacks with a shortsword were forceful and skilled and easily bested lesser talented training partners. Jack often saw him fighting Ser Jeremy during these training sessions. The two men were well-matched, he found, albeit Ryan was clearly lacking now that he had to relearn swordsmanship. But their strength, general skill, even movements were on a level. He watched them one warm evening, the company encamped for the night and the sound of countless wooden swords clashing around him where the other men trained, louder than the cicadas screaming their chant underneath their feet. Ryan and Jeremy danced rather than fought, following the same inaudible melody nobody but them could hear, their steps secure and rhythmic. It reminded Jack of a man he had known long ago – so long it felt like a lifetime now. He had sparred like this with Geoff Lonmouth, back when they had squired for Aenys Targaryen together, not men and barely boys, with almost invisible wisps of hair on their upper lips. Their days had been filled with sweat and blood, and their nights with wine and laughter. Jack had danced with Geoff on these dusty fields of his youth, when no wounds had ever troubled him and his future had lain in front of him, bright, hopeful, and beautiful. _ Geoff knew the steps to the song better than I, _ he thought. _ And yet he always returned to me, helped me back up on my feet no matter how often I stumbled and fell. Does he still dance like this with steel in his hands, without me? _And Jack swallowed these memories like the bitterest potion of a maester, and he turned his back to Ryan and Jeremy. He did not want to watch them gain what he had lost, such a deep friendship you did not even need words to talk and did not even need swords to fight, when he knew that this was lost to him forever. 

The King called Jack to his tent soon after this evening, and Jack was glad about the distraction from these melancholic thoughts. A courier had come from Westeros to deliver a letter. Gerion Hill, styled Gerion Lannister, Lord Paramount of the West, wished to talk to them, was written in this letter. He wanted to talk to them through a trusted friend of his, and what he wanted to talk about was a possible alliance between the houses Lannister and Blackfyre. His letter was short and to the point, and Baelor said it sounded like this last scion of a once great House – they had met many years ago. Jack remembered when the Lannisters had fallen. Loreon Lannister had grasped too high in Aenys Targaryen’s mind, and when the Reynes under Roland Reyne had rebelled, this had been a welcome opportunity for the dragon to rid himself of lions with overly sharp teeth. Loreon Lannister had left no trueborn children of his body, but a bastard son was said to survive to this day, hiding from the Reynes’ hidden daggers. 

“We must speak to this trusted friend of this bastard,” Baelor told him. 

“If he were that keen to talk to us, why not speak plain? There is no need for trusted friends. Let him come to Lorath,” Jack replied. 

“You are not wrong, Jack,” Baelor said thoughtfully. “But Gerion Lannister, if he is truly alive still, has every reason to be fearful of divulging his whereabouts. The usurper king wishes him dead almost as much as the two of us. You know as well as I that the nobles of the Westerlands are more than unhappy with Roland Reyne and the pressure he puts upon them. If we presented to them the Last of the Lions, bastard or not… I am certain they would flock to him for the chance to rid themselves of Reyne. He is, indeed, their _ only _lawful chance to rid themselves of Roland and his whelp.”

“Backed by us,” Jack supplied, “they could even be successful. And of course, if we were supported by one more of the big houses… That makes two already, the Lannisters and the Tullys. The West and the Riverlands united behind the one true king.” 

“It could be that this is exactly what we were lacking,” Baelor finished. “With the Lannisters and the Tullys, the Tyrells might finally be convinced that the time for a war has come. That we stand to be successful. If Gerion Hill is on our side, and we can convince him to return to the Westerlands for us… this might be it.” The two men looked at each other for a moment, each attempting to grasp what they were faced with finally: a true chance to return home, all thanks to the bastard son of a disgraced house contacting them. 

“Yes,” Jack said after a few moments had passed. “He wants this trusted friend of his to meet us in Braavos, is that correct?” 

“But we have a contract with Norvos now,” Baelor replied. “We cannot break it to go to Braavos.” 

“Send Ryan,” Jack said immediately. It seemed like the perfect solution. “You do not want him in the next battle we will fight, is that not so? Send him travelling to Braavos alone. This will allow him to heal in peace, us to stay here… And Ryan can negotiate for us. He knows what we want, and he is probably the most trustworthy of all the men in this company.”

Baelor looked pained for a moment. Jack knew he never wanted to take his eyes off Ryan, and was loathe to watch him leave for his little trips, but Baelor also understood well enough that this was the perfect solution. 

They sent for Ryan and explained the situation, and when Ryan accepted, it came as no surprise to Jack. It came of even less of a surprise to him that he demanded a certain fresh recruit, Ser Jeremy of Longsister, accompany him on his voyage to Braavos. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter and new title! "All Men Must Die" was always a placeholder title for this story and I'm glad I finally found the perfect title now. Anyways, leave a kudos or a comment if you've enjoyed this! Is that letter from Gerion Hill trustworthy? What will Ryan and Jeremy face on their way to Braavos? What was the thing Jeremy whispered to him in this chapter that Jack didn't understand? Questions, questions... and answers to come.


	7. JEREMY III

**300 AC, in the Disputed Lands between Volantis and Myr**

So far, the voyage to Braavos had been uneventful. The plan was to ride to Myr, sell their horses, and take one of the many trading ships sailing to Braavos. There were no major cities on the way, mostly wilderness on both sides of small roads winding through the plains. Nobody paid two plain-clothed travellers much mind, and once people spotted their weapons, they were ignored even more aggressively. Their horses made good speed and were reliable companions. The old, overgrown roads cut not only through plains but also through old, wild forests, and crawled around impassably high mountains. At night, they slept in decrepit inns or, if they could not find one, outside, beneath sheltering trees. Jeremy preferred to sleep outside – at least there were no fleas beneath the trees, in contrast to the flea-ridden beddings of the inns. Whenever they encountered other travellers, Ryan nodded at them curtly before he urged his horse on. Jeremy would mirror this action and nod at them as well before catching up with Ryan. When they slept in inns, Ryan likewise kept away from the other guests and went to sleep early. Jeremy, despite the bone-deep exhaustion he suffered every night, made his best attempt to stay in the common areas and talk to the other travellers, half out of a desire to acquire the Valyrian dialects spoken in Essos and half out of sincere curiosity. The men and women he met were fascinating, as were the tales they told. One man, a blue-haired Pentoshi with a three-forked beard dyed orange, green, and pink, claimed he had seen a dragon, a real living dragon, far in the East beyond the pyramids of Old Ghis. Another, an Ibbenese man with coarse black hair sprouting from his head, nose, and ears, spoke of dead men walking, their mouths and eyes aflame, haunting the Dothraki grasslands. There was a woman, so tall she towered over everyone else in the inn, who wore a mask made entirely of glass, and when questioned where she came from, replied only with ’everywhere’. In one inn, he even encountered mercenaries from a different sellsword company who were accompanying a large striped horse with two horns on its forehead, and its rich owner clothed in a cloak made entirely of silver thread.  
  
The closer they came to Myr, the less strange the people became, Jeremy noted with something like regret. That gave him more time, however, to spend with Ryan, and he used this opportunity gladly. It turned out that Ryan was not only beautiful and brave, but also a pleasant travel companion. It was easy to fight by his side, but it was even easier to hold a conversation with him. His mood was rather low in the beginning of their voyage. He was constantly tired and exhausted, and when they made camp, he drank milk of the poppy against the pain in his left arm and went to sleep immediately. As his arm began to heal, however, his mood lifted, and once he began to be able to move his fingers again, even slightly, the shift in his demeanour became obvious. They spent their days on their horses joking and laughing. Sometimes, they took a detour through patches of woods to hunt. Ryan could not use his shortbow with his injured arm, so the duty to shoot hares and other unlucky creatures fell to Jeremy. He liked whenever they were successful. It meant fresh meat grilled over a campfire for a meal far more delicious than their usual dried meat and black bread, and those meals brought out a very talkative side in Ryan. He told Jeremy stories of his youth, when he had lived close to Oldtown, and stories of his time in the Golden Company, and although these stories were less exotic than those told by the Essosi, they were no less fascinating to Jeremy. In his childhood, Ryan had been accompanied everywhere by a herding dog belonging to his father, a fierce creature that had once bitten a maester collecting herbs in his village. He had spent some time at the Citadel once he had turned thirteen, but had very quickly found out that the life of a maester was not for him. Then, Ryan had been hired by Oldtown merchants to protect their wares, and that had made him a mercenary. Jeremy, in turn, shared with Ryan some of his own stories. He told him of his childhood, when he had spent all his time catching frogs in the mud until one day, he had accompanied his mother to Lord Longthorpe’s castle and had decided that this was where he wanted to live. Naturally, his mother had explained to him that the only way a peasant boy like Jeremy could hope to live in a castle was to hone his swordsmanship and become a knight employed by a lord one day. “And now King Baelor promised you your own castle. If only she knew,” Ryan commented, his tone dry; and Jeremy nodded, sweet melancholy in his heart. “If only she knew,” he agreed. He told stories of Matt, that young lordling he had met in the town and taken up fast friendship with, and how he had trained with him for many long years, always pushing him into the mud, just as he had done with the frogs. He told Ryan of how he had travelled with Matt for the first time in his life, to a tourney hosted by Marq Arryn, and then of his other travels too, and Ryan was enthralled by his stories. He even showed Ryan the bird pendant and claimed that a highborn lady had given him this gift as her favour for one tourney, and that Jeremy had made second place only to be unhorsed by her husband, a grizzled old lord from the Stormlands – and that he had let the man defeat him voluntarily.  
  
“Why,” Ryan asked, an inquisitive smile on his lips.  
  
“She was _smitten_ with me,” Jeremy lied, pride evident in his voice, “and I could have bedded her that very day, had I defeated the old slug of a man. In fact, I fear she would have been so thrilled by my fortitude that she would have jumped down her high seat and jumped _me_ immediately! And you know how the high lords are with their women. Just _looking_ at her brought me trouble, anything more would have brought me certain death.”  
  
“Would it not have been worth it, though?” Ryan asked, his tone weirdly playful. “A honey-sweet kiss from a maid as fair as summer? There are men who would fight entire armies for such a promise.”  
  
_And I shall never be one of them,_ Jeremy thought but did not dare say. Women, fair or plain, had never made his heart race. Not the way it truly mattered. Other soldiers and knights tended to boast of their conquests of maids as much as of their battles, but for Jeremy, only the latter had ever held allure. “Glory and gold are the only things worth riding into battle for,” he told Ryan confidently, as if it were not a brazen lie. He knew, of course, that it was not true, and worse, Ryan knew this just as well.  
  
“And what of beauty?” Ryan asked, tone still playful and inquisitive, but now with a certain determination both in his voice and in how he looked at Jeremy. His hair shone golden in the bright morning sunshine, his eyes were as blue as a cloudless summer sky, and his voice was sweeter than a honeycomb plucked right out of a beehive. _A honey-sweet kiss from a maid as fair as summer,_ Jeremy thought and felt colour rising to his cheeks.  
  
“That, too,” he conceded, “but this lady, gracious and generous as she was, was not beautiful enough to risk _anything_ for, much less my life.”  
  
“I see,” Ryan granted and tugged on his horse’s reins to evade a steep stone on the ground. “May I remind you that you risk your life easily, Ser Jeremy? I have not known you for very long, yet you seem to be rather freehanded with this valuable commodity.”  
  
Ryan spoke prettily, Jeremy found, not for the first time. He always chose his words with evident care, like a smith picking only the worthiest of metals for his craft. It had taken Jeremy years to speak like him, so neatly that he might almost pass as a highborn. The content of his words, however, was not as pretty. Jeremy would never describe himself as reckless, yet Ryan’s mistake was understandable: Jeremy _had_ indeed been rather reckless in his company so far, but that was not because Jeremy was irresponsible with his life – rather, it was because he judged Ryan worth the risk. “I have become quite adept at estimating what my life is worth,” Jeremy replied. The sun shone hot on his head. “And believe me, I never risk it thoughtlessly.”  
  
With a broad smile, Ryan chuckled. Jeremy loved his laughter. It was not boisterous, like the laughter of many other sellswords, but that did not mean it was restrained – in that, his laughter was much like Ryan himself. The man’s placidity did not imply innocence, and that was why Jeremy found it so appealing. “Quite so,” he agreed, “yet whether your estimations are _correct_ or not is another matter.”  
  
“Oh, I would never dare claim that all my calculations are correct,” Jeremy admitted, “but put some faith in me, Ryan! I know what to die for.” _All that makes a man live, not just survive,_ he thought. _Good meat and good ale, and plenty of both. Children telling silly japes. A robin singing its song in the morning. Very blue eyes. A kind word, a thrilling story, a satisfied moan. Bathing in a mountain spring. Endless summer days. Not for turnips, but for flowers._ And just for a moment, he suspected that Ryan knew all of that very well.  
  
Ryan regarded him warmly, which felt much like the sun beating down on his head, only far more pleasant. “So it seems,” he said gently, and that was that. They rode on, talking and enjoying a companionable silence, and nothing of note happened.  
  
Hours after this conversation, Jeremy spotted a village on the horizon. They were nearing Myr and would reach the city proper within a day or two. This night, they would sleep on real feather beds, Ryan promised Jeremy when they entered the village just as the sun was setting, purple clouds bleeding into a sky as red as fire. The village was the biggest one they had seen so far, with scores of prim houses crowding along a forked road. Its inn was also the biggest one they had seen so far, and after Ryan handed the innkeep some coins, he served them a delicious stew in wooden bowls filled to the brim. Jeremy and Ryan were discussing whether the meat inside was heron or seagull when a tall, auburn-haired man stepped to their table. Jeremy looked up at him immediately as he lowered his spoon, but Ryan kept eating without giving the man much attention. He was dressed richly, wearing a silk cloak dyed purple over a dark blue velvet ensemble, and he had the distinct look of one who regarded anyone without such clothes as inferior, and anyone _with_ such clothes as dangerous competition. He cleared his throat before he began to speak in a dialect of bastard Valyrian. Jeremy was proud he understood what he was saying. “Are you people...” _It is strange,_ Jeremy thought, _how he manages to say that word when he does not truly consider us as such._ “...sellswords?”  
  
Jeremy and Ryan exchanged a glance, deciding what to answer. If they said yes, no doubt trouble would follow. There were very close to the first goal of their voyage, was it really worth it getting into trouble now? Ryan narrowed his eyes. Jeremy, however, had learnt not to disrespect the rich and wealthy, and he raised his head towards the man. “We are, m’lord,” he told him, which had Ryan narrowing his eyes even more.  
  
“Very well,” the man said in a tone as if he was suffering, “I suppose you will have to do. My name is Khonos of Myr, a landowner and nobleman from Myr. I have come to this place to deal with some unpleasantries. Sadly, my slave guards perished in a fight against bandits this very morning. I would be loathe to return to Myr, unprotected and without having done my business here. I offer you a handsome reward if you will take my slaves’ place. Guard me while I take care of what I need to do, and guard me on the way back to Myr.”  
  
Jeremy had not understood all of that, and therefore directed his questioning gaze to Ryan. Blue eyes regarded the Myrman warily before a wide, fake smile split Ryan’s face. “A welcome offer in desperate times,” Ryan answered Khonos smoothly, “how much will you pay, exactly?” The two negotiated the price of their services while Jeremy finished the soup, and a few minutes later they clasped hands. Khonos turned around and began walking out of the inn. Ryan stood up, picked up his bag, and beckoned Jeremy to follow. He explained that Khonos would not give details of his dealings in this village, but that he did not expect resistance, and that the two of them were hired more for intimidation than for anything else. He also explained that the price was not sufficient for such a task, even after he had negotiated. The last part he told Jeremy in the Common Tongue, and quiet enough for Khonos not to hear them.  
  
“Then why _are_ we doing it?” Jeremy asked, to which Ryan reacted with a puzzled expression.  
  
“Gold is gold, even if it’s less than we deserve,” he replied.  
  
“Yet not all gold is worth its price,” Jeremy said, which made Ryan hum pensively.  
  
After a while of following their temporary employer, they crossed the stream flowing through the village and rounded a small hill to arrive at a cosy-looking little hut with smoke coming out of a hole in its thatched roof. Khonos rapped on the door thrice. Ryan drew his shortsword, Jeremy his battle-axe, and the door swung open to reveal an old, white-haired man. He looked at Khonos for a few seconds and then asked something Jeremy did not understand at all.  
  
“No,” Khonos replied and pushed the old man out of the way in order to enter the hut. Ryan followed him. Jeremy threw a wary look around him before he, too, followed. The door fell shut behind him.   
  
The inside of the hut was not very impressive and so small it made Jeremy feel uneasy immediately. It consisted of one room and a wooden door leading to another. A fireplace took up one side, with a wooden table and some chairs next to it. On one of the chairs, a young woman sat with needlework in her lap. She looked up as they entered and put her needlework away. Next to her sat a young man with ginger hair who resembled Khonos so much that they had to be related somehow. He sighed loudly once they entered. “Khonos, brother, by the Pale Child, what are you doing here!” he complained. The woman stood and retreated to the back room; Khonos did not seem to care, so Jeremy did not either. Ryan, however, watched her carefully and turned his head towards Jeremy when she closed the door behind herself.  
  
Khonos and his brother kept talking to each other, but Jeremy was zoned in on Ryan, who raised his chin in the direction of the back room and grimaced. Jeremy’s grip around the battle-axe tightened and he took on a defensive stance. His instincts screamed at him to step before Ryan, whose battle prowess had noticeably declined after the loss of use of his left hand, but he knew that Ryan’s pride would not allow this, and so he kept himself in check. A second later, several things happened at once. First, the door to the back room opened with a loud bang and three tall, broad men armed to the teeth stepped out; second, the old man who had opened the hut’s door fled out into the night through the very same; third, Ryan grabbed Khonos’ shoulder and dragged him behind him; and fourth, Khonos’ brother drew a thin, stick-like sword and swung clumsily at Ryan. He dodged it expertly and fought back with his shortsword while the three armed men advanced, and just like that, they were in a full-blown fight without knowing what was happening and why. Jeremy did not care about Khonos nor his brother, and even less about the reasons they were fighting for. All Jeremy knew that he _was_ fighting – doing what he was supposed to do in this life. He was not afraid, although all three men advancing towered him by two heads or more. He trusted Ryan to have his back even at these odds.  
  
Jeremy grabbed one of the armed men and smashed his axe into his belly with such a force that he stumbled back and crashed into the wall. A sword slashed at Jeremy, but his armor kept him protected and he retaliated against the attacker. A glance to his side showed him that Ryan had brought Khonos’ brother to the ground while he kept their employer behind his back, then turned to the armed men. One of them attacked, but Ryan parried, and Jeremy looked back to his own attacker in order to fight him off. The man ran at him and grabbed his waist to push him down at the ground. Jeremy grappled with him before he was able to throw him off of himself, but by then, the man had grabbed his battle-axe and tried to hit Jeremy with it. With a splintering sound, the metal came down on the wooden floor where Jeremy’s head had been a second prior. His heart racing, Jeremy rolled over. The axe came down again grazing his shoulder. The metal could not slice through his armor, but the strength the blow was delivered with forced the air out of his lungs. The man raised his axe again. _I will not die by my own weapon,_ Jeremy thought with suffocating clarity. _I will not die for nothing._ And more importantly, he realised, he did not want to die. Not now, not in a battle tomorrow, not at all. He kicked blindly upwards and hit the man in his chest. That made his foe hesitate for a single second, and that was more than enough time for Jeremy.  
  
He rolled away and jumped back to his feet as he grabbed his own shortsword and hacked at the attacker. Bleeding, the man rose as well and slashed at Jeremy’s hand. Jeremy dodged by stumbling back, but dropped his sword in the process. He swore loudly, his right hand blindly groping for any weapon around him. Behind him, it found Ryan’s warm body in motion, leather armor slippery beneath his fingers. “Weapon!” Jeremy yelled as he evaded his attacker’s next blow. “Longsword!” Ryan replied immediately. Jeremy turned around for the fraction of a second to look at Ryan. His pupils were small and focused and his breathing was heavy. Without sparing a thought to the consequences, Jeremy grabbed for the handle of Ryan’s longsword and drew it out of its scabbard.   
  
It was much lighter than he had expected it to be. Ryan guarded this weapon like a dragon his treasure. None but him were allowed to touch it, not even during training. The hilt molded itself to Jeremy’s fingers as if he had been born to wield it. A strange calm rushed over him. He planted both feet on the floor, a secure stand, and sliced at his attacker. The sword did not make a sound as it took the man’s hand clean off. Jeremy’s battle-axe fell to the ground with a clank, ready for the taking, but Jeremy kept gripping the sword tightly instead of picking up the axe. He faced the next man – who, wisely, took a step back after his companion lost his hand. With a grunt, Jeremy advanced. Behind him, he was aware of the newly handless man turning around while he attacked the man in front of him. The sword seemed to be quicker than any other sword he had ever held. There was something abnormal about it – something unearthly. He swung and slashed at the man’s throat, and looked into his eyes as the light left them while he choked on his own blood. A second passed. The blood coating the dark steel made it glisten. Someone behind him screamed and Jeremy turned around, alarmed.  
  
Khonos had just slapped his brother, who had been the one screaming. It was a bizarre sight. The two highborn men slapped one another like petulant children while their men were dying around them. All three attackers lay on the ground motionless. One was still breathing, but he was doomed to die, Jeremy saw with one single look at him – the one whose hand he had cut off. He had killed the second man with Ryan’s sword. The third was laying on his stomach. Jeremy could see that his stomach had been cut open. Blood pooled beneath him. He looked away, only to see the brothers engaged in their fight.   
  
Ryan stepped away from them. His expression was one of utter disgust. Jeremy handed his sword back to him, and Ryan sheathed it, covered in blood as it was. “Pathetic,” he murmured, nodding at the brothers. Jeremy could not agree more. Three men had just died for no good reason – stalwart, skilled warriors – and these two were squabbling like little children. Ryan kneeled down and closed the dead men’s eyes. Jeremy, too, kneeled down – by the dying man’s side. His breath came shallow and slow. “May your gods be kind to you,” Jeremy told him in broken Valyrian as he grasped his hand, and the man looked at him with gratitude before his last wheezing breath faded.  
  
The fight had been a good fight, Jeremy thought when he stood up again, but the cause had not been good. It had not been noble, nor glorious, only petty bickering, and the death had been for naught. All it had achieved was to bring coin to his pocket, just like robbing the dead had done. His left hand found the way beneath his collar to the bird pendant, a constant reminder of how low he had allowed himself to sink and of how high he wanted to rise. Suddenly, Ryan stood next to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was warm even through his armour, Jeremy imagined. “Are you well, Jeremy?” he asked, his voice sombre.  
  
Jeremy looked at him in confusion. “Certainly. Why would I not be?”  
  
“You seem to be upset. Mad, one might say. I know a thing or two about that,” Ryan replied calmly. Jeremy looked at his hands. They were trembling. He sighed.  
  
“I am glad the fight is over, that is all,” Jeremy said and realised with surprise that this was true. He was rarely glad that fights were over. No matter how bloody and messy they were, they also tended to make him feel alive. But this, now… it had been so senseless. So gods-damned senseless.  
  
Ryan threw a glance at Khonos, who had stopped slapping his brother and was now talking heatedly to him. He pondered the sight for a second. “I came here not for the gold,” Ryan said, finally, “but because I was curious about that man's business here. But this is all a trifle. None of this matters.”  
  
Jeremy followed his gaze to the brothers. He pondered his companion’s words. None of it mattered. _I know what to die for,_ he had said, earlier this day, and – it wasn’t this. _A honey-sweet kiss from a maid as fair as summer._ That was worth dying for. He narrowed his eyes and grasped Ryan’s upper arm to draw him down, far enough for him to whisper something into his ear.  
  
“You do not care to be paid by this man? Then let us rob him and leave him. We may be sellswords, but we do not need to sell our souls too, wouldn't you agree?”  
  
Ryan’s eyes were very bright. “Breaking a contract? You know that this means we would have to run from this man, and that he would send men to hunt us down, and that boarding a ship would become far more difficult if we did that?”  
  
Jeremy knew that. He nodded.  
  
Ryan beamed at him. “That is madness.”  
  
“I knew you would like it,” Jeremy replied easily, kneeled down, picked his battle-axe up, and brought it down between the brothers.  
  
Defeating Khonos and his brother was as easy as stealing a child’s sweets. They begged for their lives once they had disarmed them, but Jeremy and Ryan took only a few of their belongings. From Khonos’ brother, they took a golden ring inlaid with sapphires and milky opals; from Khonos himself, they took his purple silk cloak and his coin pouch. Then, they tied both of them up, right next to the corpses, and with a smirk, they ran. It felt good, Jeremy thought, to do this. A small act of resistance against men who thought that a hired man's death was insignificant. It was everything but, in Jeremy’s opinion. They ran back to the inn and brought their horses out of the stable; and then they spurred them into a breakneck gallop into the forests surrounding the village, off any road. Only when the moon had long since risen did they allow the horses some rest. They found a small clearing and decided to bed down for a few hours before pushing on in the early morning. Jeremy felt exhausted but, at the same time, exhilarated, as if he had drunk a dozen tankards of good ale. After they built a small campfire, Jeremy left the camp for a stream to refill their waterskins and wash himself, while Ryan stayed by the fire guarding their equipment. It took Jeremy longer than expected. He made sure to wash the blood off his new purple cloak as well as he could, and only returned a half-hour later, approaching their camp carefully. The moon was almost invisible by now, hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the campfire illuminating Ryan softly.  
  
Ryan sat alone on the ground, only his cloak between him and the cold hard earth, wiping the blood off his dark sword, and it seemed he had not noticed Jeremy yet. He was humming to himself, then raised his voice to sing softly. “[The Dornishman’s wife](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrJoAy6-or0) was as fair as the sun and her kisses were warmer than spring," he sang, words Jeremy knew very well. As a youth, he had sat in Matt’s court when travelling bards had stopped for a day or two, and he had always begged them to sing all the songs they knew. _The Dornishman’s Wife_ was a favourite among bards and the smallfolk alike, and Jeremy remembered a bard not much older than himself, with pretty blond hair and plush red lips, whose words of kisses had made his heart race faster than any horse. “But the Dornishman’s blade was made of black steel, and its kiss was a terrible thing,” Ryan continued. The strokes along his sword were slow and languid, and he was focused entirely on the act. It almost brought a flush to Jeremy’s face, and it certainly made his heart race as fast as it had done years ago. “The Dornishman’s wife would sing as she bathed, in a voice that was sweet as a peach,” he continued; delightfully fitting words that _did_ bring the flush to his face despite his best attempts to remain unaffected. Jeremy stayed half-hidden between the trees. He knew he should step out and make Ryan aware of his presence, but he feared he would stop singing in that case. “But the Dornishman’s blade had a song of its own, and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.” Ryan’s voice was sweeter than any peach indeed, and he knew the words as well as the melody, but he could not hold a tone, and his singing was less than perfect. It made it more charming to Jeremy’s ears, though. “As he lay on the ground with darkness around–” Ryan dropped the cleaning cloth on the ground next to him and raised the sword to look at it. “–and the taste of blood on his tongue–” He turned the sword that way and that way, and then, a slow, satisfied smile spread on his lips.  
  
Jeremy had seen Ryan smile several times now, grin and laugh besides, but this smile was different. Hidden and private, and so intimate that Jeremy felt like he was intruding. _He looks like an ancient king,_ he found himself thinking suddenly, dazed and flushed. _Victorious in battle and bathed in triumph._ “His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,” Ryan continued, his voice growing softer and somehow, although Jeremy would have judged this impossible a second ago, even lovelier. “And he smiled and he laughed and he sung,” Ryan sang, and Jeremy could see him so clearly it hurt: courting a married woman and bedding her – and only a woman lacking all sense would reject Ryan – before dueling her furious husband; and then, his head on Jeremy’s lap as he spent the last breaths of his life laughing. “Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,” the real Ryan was singing as he slid his sword back into its scabbard, “the Dornishman’s taken my life.” He turned his head abruptly, raised his eyes, and locked eyes with Jeremy without hesitation. Jeremy felt caught in the act, as if he had trespassed onto a scene he should not have seen, much like the husband in the song finding his wife abed with Ryan. But there was no fury in his heart, no jealousy or wroth, only shame and an excruciating yearning which clawed at his blood like a vicious animal. Ryan’s eyes glinted in the starlight. “But what does it matter?” he sang before his mouth fell shut abruptly.  
  
“For all men must die,” Jeremy continued the song, his voice much stronger than he felt. His knees were weak, his cheeks flushed and his breath coming too fast. Ryan’s mouth opened again, in a blindingly wide, delighted grin. Jeremy’s stomach turned itself into knots at this gorgeous and radiant sight, but he managed a shaky smile of his own. “And I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife!” Ryan shouted rather than sang, and Jeremy joined in. The repeated the last few verses, as was custom, their voices growing louder with each word until the song reached its crescendo with another shouted “And I’ve tasted the Dornishman’s wife!” Jeremy found himself wishing that the song was longer, but only for a moment: The silence that spread between them was as sweet as the song, filled with unspoken understanding. Jeremy freed himself from his state of shock and stepped forward until he was close enough to sit down next to Ryan. The ground was cold, but Jeremy did not mind. When it came to Ryan, he found more and more often, he did not mind much he would mind otherwise. They sat there for a while, both of them watching the campfire lapping up at the darkness. It was Jeremy who broke the silence, for no better reason than he wanted to hear Ryan’s voice. “Have you ever been to Dorne?” he asked, looking at Ryan first and then the starry night-sky.  
  
“No,” Ryan said quietly and breathed in audibly. Starlight glinted in his eyes. “I saw little and less of the seven kingdoms. And what I saw, apart from my village, were battlefields. But I know Dornishmen. I know Reachmen and Ironborn and Northerners and Stormlanders and Rivermen and Valemen. I befriended maesters and septons, even drank with a Black Brother. I remember my father’s stories of Aegon the Conqueror and Lann the Clever and Brave Danny Flint, Garth Greenhand who planted the oldest trees, and Brandon Stark, the hero who built the Wall. I was raised on tales of Symeon Star-Eyes and the Long Night, I know that traders walk the Kingsroad and sell their wares in Flea Bottom, and that the skulls of dragons watch over the last Targaryens. They drink the sweetest wine in the Reach and mine gold in the West and eat fat pike in the Riverlands.” He closed his mouth, breathed in, and continued. “As a child, I played come-into-my castle by day and was scared of grumkins and snarks by night. My first kiss I gave to a maid whom I fancied my Jonquil, and I her Florian. On my name-days, I was treated to boar and capon and strong brown ale. I speak Valyrian, but even after all these years, my dreams are still in the Common Tongue. Nymeria came from Essos and loved this new land so much she burned her ten thousand ships. I do not have ten thousand ships, but I would burn them too if it meant I could return home.” When he was finished, Ryan stared into the fire. Its flames were mirrored in his eyes, licking upwards in his pupils. They were big and dark and shone with sorrow.  
  
Jeremy reached out and placed a hand on Ryan’s where it rested on his knee. Ryan looked up from the fire to look at Jeremy. Half of his face was bathed in darkness, shadows coiled around his features like a venomous snake, dangerously still before the strike, and the other half was illuminated not only by the fire, but also by fragile vulnerability. Jeremy’s touch was soft and gentle. He hoped it could soothe the ache in Ryan’s heart, even for a bit. “Let us go there, one day,” he murmured quietly. Jeremy had seen most of Westeros. It was not as Ryan thought it would be, that much he knew. Those words of longing could only be spoken by a man who did not know the places he yearned for, had never seen the filth coating them and the lowly, mean viciousness of its people. But Jeremy did not say any of that. “From the North’s icy shores to Dorne’s dry sands. I will show you King’s Landing and Lannisport and Highgarden, where all the maidens are beautiful and all the men are brave.” He realized that he was still flushed red from Ryan’s singing as he spoke, but the words came out of him too quick to stop them for shame. “I will show you my home, if you like. Longsister. It’s not much, but it’s mine.”  
  
“I would like that,” Ryan said just as quietly. He was silent for a few long moments. “I think I already like Longsister better than all the others.” The logs in the fire cracked as they burnt to ashes, and Ryan’s words made Jeremy feel as if his insides, too, were cracking and burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ran away with me - I really did not plan for it to be this long, but here we are.  
20k words in, and these guys are only now starting to openly flirt? Talk about slowburn...  
Thanks a lot for reading! If you liked it: I'd love a kudos or a comment!


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